I need to get back into the writing game. I need the therapy.
Not sure if this is a wake up call
or the beginnings of a new
My creative body has been left
for dead, while surviving
School, becomes merely tolerating
Knots in my back have built
up to mountains.
She hums what the world needs now—
is love sweet love in the mornings.
I think its her way of coping, her way
of putting love out there, into the air.
She’s my outlet to the future, to understand
that I might still be the scared, sad, creature
I am now, in ten years time.
Computer screens, phone screens,
anxiously waiting for social texts,
my hands always occupied, my mind
always in a box, the passing of time,
the loss of moments.
Just the thought of going camping
could make me cry.
What if I regret spending the last of my
twenties in school?
What if I should buy that electric VW
and not go gentle into that good night?
Is going through the motions as
wasteful as suicide?